Make Me Wanna Die
by ablondeinaunionjack
Summary: "You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him, you know." Katniss Everdeen does know, and she hates it. Peeta deserves someone who really cares about him. That's not her, not by a long shot. Songfic to Make Me Wanna Die by the Pretty Reckless.


"It's beautiful up here, isn't it?" asks Peeta, turning his head to look at me.

I smile and nod, looking across at the Capitol skyline to avoid meeting his eyes. He has his arm around me, pulling me close, and my head is resting on his shoulder. Even after everything Portia and his prep team has done to him, he still carries the smell of the bakery in the Seam with him – baking bread, dill, and cinnamon in particular. I close one eye, squinting into the sunlight, and try to relax. But I can't. Being this close to Peeta feels wrong somehow. I don't deserve him, and I know it; and that makes it almost unbearable to be doing this. I remember what Haymitch said what feels like years ago. _"You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him, you know_." It's painfully true. I'm an outlaw from the Seam who murdered people in the arena, he's the baker's son who always thinks of other people and risked being hit to help a starving girl he'd never met before. And suddenly I can't take it. I pull away from him, turn my eyes towards the sun so I don't have to face him.

"Katniss?"

He sounds worried. Upset. I'm a horrible person.

"Sorry, the sun was getting too bright."

I look up. Down. Anywhere that isn't Peeta's eyes.

"Sorry, I should have realised. I'll move."

Before I can say anything, he's moved and put his arm around me again. I feel stifled, like I can't breathe properly; but I won't object. We're going into the arena again soon. Moments of peace like this are too precious to waste.

_Take me, I'm alive, never was a girl with a wicked mind__  
__But everything looks better, when the sun goes down_

In my mind, I'm trying to work out how I can best protect him in the arena – I have to take out the strongest contenders first and leave the weakest to Peeta. Finnick will have to go; Johanna, Brutus, Enobaria…I can't see how I'll kill them without getting killed myself, but I can't expect Peeta to win if I only take out one person before I die. My mind races, considering my opponents. I'd have to take on the Careers, obviously – maybe if I try a temporary alliance with the District 8 tributes, they could help me set up a trap. Then I could take them out easily…I remember Beetee and Wiress and I feel a pang of sorrow. I don't want to kill them. They are probably the nicest tributes here; but they have to die if Peeta is going to live. Everyone has to. Even poor Cecelia with her three children at home; even old Mags…Even me. I will have to die this time.

It's a mind-blowing though, but somehow wonderfully liberating: I will die protecting Peeta – not being tortured to death by the Capitol at President Snow's command, but dying in the arena to protect the boy who was willing to sacrifice himself to save me last time. A small triumphant smile creeps onto my face. This is exactly how it should be.

"Look at that, Katniss. How amazing that sunset is. I wish I could hold it right there and paint it," murmured Peeta in my ear.

Great. So while I've been considering the murder of my fellow tributes, he's been looking at the sunset. I feel so…inadequate. Like I'm not as pure and sweet as him; I'm cruel and pessimistic and a calculating killer. I look at the sunset, where he's pointing. It's orange – his favourite colour. Orange and yellow, fading to pinkish clouds high above the Capitol skyline. It's gorgeous, and I wish I could stay here forever, just looking at the daylight fade and die…just like all the tributes in the 75th Hunger Games. I snap back to reality. Maybe it's better when the sun goes down. It means I don't have to pretend any more. And when the sun goes down for the last time for me, I'll be glad that I've been released from all this. It hurts too much.

"What do you think?"

"It's amazing," I agree. "I wish you could paint it too."

He smiles.

"For you, Katniss, I'll try."

Then he kisses me. And I want to cry.

___I had everything, opportunities for eternity and_

_I__could belong to the night_

If I'd just let Peeta die in the arena, what would have happened? What if he'd been killed before I found him? If he had, maybe I could have won on my own. Gone back to the Seam, to Victor's Village and lived out the rest of my life in peace. I could have disappeared; there would have been no berries, no uprising, and no need to go back into the arena, to pretend to be madly in love with somebody, to marry them…Peeta stops kissing me and pulls away.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

I say I'm fine, but I'm lying. I've never felt less fine in my life. I try to plaster convincing smile onto my face, but he's spent enough time with me to know when I'm pretending. He looks worried.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just...I guess I just realised that we're nearly back in the arena, and that scares me. It was hard enough the first time, but I don't know how I'm going to cope this time."

Real tears well in my eyes, and I try to brush them away. But Peeta's hand is already there, wiping the drops away gently with his thumbs.

"It's okay, Katniss," he says softly. "You don't always have to be strong."

Giving in, I bury my head in his shoulder and sob, letting him hold me until I can't cry any more. He's so warm and safe that I can barely make myself pull away; but I have to, because otherwise I will stay there all night. I don't pull all the way back though – just enough to make sure that I can get up if I have to. My arms are still around his neck, his arm around my shoulders. His forehead is resting again mine, reassuring me, and his eyes...

_Your eyes, your eyes, I can see in your eyes, your eyes_

Peeta's eyes are childish and innocent and just so good that I can't imagine how he will survive the Games again. Surely it was luck the first time? Those aren't the eyes of a killer, they're the eyes of a sweet boy who never should have been in the Games; who never should have fallen in love with me. I can see in his light blue eyes how much he enjoys this closeness, how determined he is to protect me, and it kills me inside. I want to get away from here – run away from Peeta, back down to my room to lock myself in. Maybe it's not such a bad thing that I'll die soon. It'll be easier than living with Peeta Mellark.

_You make me wanna die__  
__I'll never be good enough_

The fact is, I will never be good enough for him: not as a wife, not as a girlfriend, not even as a friend. He's too good, too pure – he deserves a girl who really loves him. And whatever he might think, that's not me. Peeta is sweet, but I couldn't imagine really marrying him, having children with him...I couldn't do that. Not if I knew that the children would be destined for the Hunger Games, destined for death at the hands of the people who had engineered our marriage. That would be just too cruel.

Peeta pulls away a little, which surprises me. Then he picks up his sketch-pad and a pencil, drawing my face with swift, deft strokes. He looks up, catching my expression.

"Sorry. You just looked so beautiful, I had to draw you..."

There's a stabbing pain in my chest which is like nothing I've ever experienced before – no injury feels this bad, and I should know. No, this is much deeper than a flesh wound. It's strange to think that the most painful thing I've ever felt was not caused by Hunger Games tributes, or Peace-Keepers, or the Capitol...but by my best friend.

_You make me wanna die__  
__And everything you love, will burn up in the light_

Peeta wants everything that I don't. He is my opposite in almost everything – looks, personality, talents...I just don't know how he thinks this will work. If President Snow isn't satisfied by our display, it'll all be lost. His paintings burned, his family killed, his hopes for us shattered. All because of me and the berries. It's not often that I wish for death, but now...now I wish it had come the first time I'd entered the arena. I wish the Careers had killed me, that I'd died of the tracker-jacker stings, that the mutts had attacked me. Then Peeta would have won and there would have been no revolution, no death threats. Everything would have been perfect.

Peeta's pencil scratches the paper, catching the way my clothes lie perfectly. And I start to wonder: would he have gone on to be a victor? Or would he have eaten the berries? Then where would we be?

"Katniss."

Peeta's voice breaks through my reverie, forcing me to look him in the eye again.

"What do you think?" he asks, holding his book up.

I've been captured perfectly by his sharp eyes and clever pencil-work, a girl looking down sadly at the Capitol, as though it was the most terrible thing in the world. The girl is right.

"It's beautiful. You're so good at this."

"I'm not that good...without my muse," he murmurs, flicking his eyes up to mine.

_Every time I look inside your eyes__  
__Make me wanna die_

I just want to leap off the roof – even though I know the force-field will just throw me back up again. I could run downstairs, I suppose, but then what? A quick dispatch with a kitchen knife? Could I lock myself in my room until I starve? I shudder at the thought, remembering how close I've been to starving in the past. Peeta reaches out and strokes my cheek, trying to work out what's wrong with me.

"Are you cold?"

I suddenly realise that I am cold; freezing, in fact. But no jumpers or blankets can help me with it. I shake my head, but he sees the goose-bumps on my arms and sighs, pulling his jacket off.

"No, really, I'm fine," I say, trying to shrug off his offered jacket.

He ignores me and drapes it over my shoulders. We are not dressed to match today – his jacket is fire-orange, made of a thick and soft material that keeps the evening chill from my back. Peeta is only wearing a short-sleeved black shirt and I can see how cold he must be. He is used to the warmth of the bakery in the Seam, whereas I'm used to a trek into woods at least once a week. I feel guilty, and try to take it off.

"Katniss, leave it. I'm warm enough."

He's lying. Just like I was.

"Well, at least come closer now. You've finished your sketch." He smiles and sits next to me. I try to share the jacket between us a little, and succeed in putting it around one of Peeta's shoulders as well as one of mine. "That's better."__

_Taste me, drink my soul, show me all the things that I__shouldn't know, _

_When there's a new moon on the rise_

He kisses me again, and this time it's more than just a light, playful one. He wraps his arms around me, forcing me to do the same. I don't mind this time. It feels different. I let myself go, reminding myself that nobody is watching, and hold him closely.

_You shouldn't be doing this_, I think. _You have to be cold, you can't let him get his hopes up_.

I ignore myself and stay, locked with Peeta, in the same position until we have to break apart to breathe.

"I love you," he whispers. "We can't let the Capitol break us."

I merely nod, not trusting myself to speak without breaking into a tirade about the Hunger Games, the Capitol and President Snow. I allow myself one sentence, breathed so that only he can hear.

"We should support the uprisings."

I expect a sharp reply, but Peeta surprises me.

"Yes. We should have stayed in Eleven, helped the people trying to rebel. Or Eight, or Four. Anywhere but the Capitol."

He presses his knuckles into his forehead and looks away.

"I shouldn't have said that. Anybody could be listening. Pretend I never said it."

I take his chin in my hand and make him look at me.

"I won't pretend. You're right, we should have stayed. But maybe we can do something here, something that could help them without getting them in danger."

"_They_ won't be in danger; but what about you? President Snow already wants you dead."

He's right, but I refuse to admit it. I can't just sit by, enjoying the Capitol's hospitality, whilst rebels die trying to change things. Peeta doesn't say any more: he doesn't have to. Instead he puts his arm around me, making the jacket fall off our backs. I don't mind – I feel much warmer just knowing that Peeta feels the same way.

"Look – new moon," he says, pointing at the silvery-white disc over a tall, unrecognisable Capitol building.

"It's beautiful. Reminds me of home."

"Me too."

I must look surprised, because he smiles slightly at me.

"I like star-gazing too – I've painted all the constellations I could see from the Seam. I have a book of them."

"I'd like to see those some day."

"You will. When we get home.

Poor Peeta. He thinks there's going to be an uprising here, amongst the victors. But no berries will get us out of this mess.

_I had everything, opportunities for eternity _

_And I__could belong to the night_

Now I wonder what life would be like if this year hadn't been a Quarter Quell. If we had been mentors, not tributes. Which poor District Twelve children would have been chosen? Someone Peeta knows? Someone I know? Maybe a girl from my old street; maybe a boy from Peeta's; maybe even a boy from the mines, the son of a family friend. Someone from Gale's crew. Gale, even. I would have had to teach them to fight like I fought, how to get things from their sponsors, how to play to the crowd. They'd get the most screen-time, because of their mentors, and we would be interviewed all the time, having to play the happy couple for the Capitol's cameras for the entire duration of the Games. Then the Victory Tour. Then every Hunger Games afterwards, for as long as we both lived. It would be like being in the Games forever. No wonder Haymitch turned to his white liquor, his only solace in a cruel world. What would it be like for Peeta? He wouldn't drink, or take morphling; he'd just paint himself into deeper and darker pictures until he couldn't take it any more. And I would have to watch.

_Your eyes, your eyes, I can see in your eyes, your eyes_

I can tell just by looking into his eyes that he's never thought about this. Lucky him. It's been haunting my thoughts since after the 74th Hunger Games, and it has only worsened since the President's visit. His pictures reveal that he hasn't forgotten the Games, but he hasn't thought about it as I have. There is so much purity still in his eyes – unlike mine. Mine are like the snow in the Seam: starting off pure and unsullied, but ending up tainted and corrupted; as I have been since my father's death. Peeta has never felt that. He can't know - and I hope he never will know – how it feels. This is the only thing that makes me second-guess my plans to die for him in the arena, because then he _will_ feel it, he _will_ know the horrible empty sensation in the stomach, the pain in the throat and the pangs in the heart that accompany the loss of anyone you love.

Would I feel like that if Peeta died?

_You make me wanna die__  
__I'll never be good enough__  
__You make me wanna die__  
__And everything you love, will burn up in the light_

I really, really hope I would. If I didn't, what would that make me? Peeta has offered me love, a home, a life. And I have given him nothing but pain and suffering in return.

"Do you want to go back downstairs?" asks Peeta. "I expect they'll be looking for us now."

"Yes," I reply, wanting to be alone with my thoughts for a while. "We should go before Effie sends out a search party."

Peeta laughs.

"She probably would, as well."

"Well, she can't have her best tributes disappearing on her, can she?" I say, allowing myself a small smile. "That would be a _catastrophe_." I mimic her anxious, high-pitched voice easily, and end up giggling helplessly, remembering all the silly things she's said since she's been looking after us.

"She couldn't afford to lose her pearls from the Seam," says Peeta seriously.

My stomach hurts from laughing, and I am forced to lean back against him to get my breath back. How is it that I can laugh like this a few moments after contemplating my own death? I try to keep smiling, but my mind is elsewhere.

"Come on, Katniss, we should go – I think I can hear the search party now." He helps me up, and picks up his jacket to wrap around me. "Are you okay?"

_Every time I look inside your eyes (I'm burning in the__  
__light)__  
__Make me wanna die_

His eyes...I can't bear to look into them any more.

"I'm okay, just a little tired."

"It's been a long day," he agrees, leading me away from the edge of the rooftop. "We could all do with some sleep. But today has been the best day I've had in a long, long time."

I want to curl up and die right there. _Stop it!_ I want to yell. _You could do so much better than me, please don't throw your life away like this._

Like I intend to.

Everything is so tangled and confused, I can't think straight any more. I manage a reassuring smile and words somehow trip off my tongue.

"Me too. Today's been great."__

_I would die for you, my love, my love__  
__I would lie for you, my love, my love __  
__I would steal for you, my love, my love_

I know I would die for Peeta. But not for the reasons he died for me. I want to die to protect him, yes; but not because I'm madly in love with him, not because I couldn't imagine life without him. Am I doing it just to fuel the rebel's rage? Just to make sure Peeta joins them? I can't even tell what my motives are now. I take this as a promising sign that my friends won't be able to either. If they did, they would surely try to stop me. I won't let that happen, not this close to the Games which Peeta _must_ win. I have to be private and secretive to hide my plans from everyone: not so far from my real life, actually. I smile bitterly at this thought. I have come full circle – from my secret life in the Seam, to my open life in the Capitol, and now back to the seclusion of my thoughts. It's almost as though the girl who had smiled and waved, blown kisses and giggled like a fool in interviews was never here.

_I would die for you, my love, my love__  
__Will burn up in the light..._

If I was tested, would my determination to save Peeta falter? I can only hope that I'll be strong enough to carry out my plan without giving in and giving up. I check that thought. There's no hope involved – I _have_ to do it. But then there is no going back...

My head hurts. Peeta is taking me downstairs, but everything is a blur. I can't see straight, and I feel oddly dizzy. I can't take all this. I lean heavily against him, hoping that he will support me with his strong baker's arms, but I don't think he's getting the message.

"Peeta..." I struggle to speak.

The lights above me are dancing, whirling, like the dancers at my first party in the Capitol.

"Peeta..."

_Every time I look inside your eyes (I'm burning in the__  
__light)__  
__Look inside your eyes (I'm burning in the light)__  
__Look inside your eyes_

His eyes meet mine questioningly. So pure, so innocent, so...perfect. I am not worthy. I have to get away from him. I push him away, my hand on his chest, and try to run back to my room. I don't get that far. My legs feel like jelly and I can barely stand on my own.

"Katniss?"

"Peeta..."

He catches me as I trip over the thick carpet, and carries me back to my room.

"I'm sorry, Peeta," I whisper, but he doesn't hear me. "I am so, so sorry."

_You make me wanna die._

**This is a post for the writing challenge Project PULL set up by Bookaholic711. For more information, visit my profile. Thanks.**


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